


Circle of Influence

by SilverKnight16



Series: Forces of Nature [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (Even he has his limits), All aboard the Feels train, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Child Loss, Family Feels, Gavin Reed Not Being an Asshole, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Is a day that will live in infamy, October 11th 2035, Sad with a Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Time Skips, heed the warnings y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverKnight16/pseuds/SilverKnight16
Summary: Jeffrey Fowler thought October 11th, 2035 was going to be just like any other day.(Now with some actual comfort at the end, because I just couldn't handle the oppressive sadness.  ENJOY THE FEELS.)





	1. October 11th, 2035

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not normally one to post trigger warnings, but seriously: **TRIGGER WARNINGS** for some of what you see in here, if you've witnessed a death in the family or had to deal with a loved one's suicide attempt. Please be safe.

Jeffrey Fowler felt like he was stuck in a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

His line of work meant he saw a lot of shit; his position as police captain meant that he saw a lot of particularly fucked up shit. His job entailed him playing the parts of field commander, detective, and guidance counselor, all wrapped into one giant, messy package that he could never get a goddamn day off from. It was stressful at the best of times, when everything was working smoothly, and there wasn’t some epidemic looming over his head like a fucking Sword of Damocles.

Right now, he’d have preferred an epidemic, over seeing the suffering of his people.

News traveled up the grapevine pretty quickly whenever one of their own was found at the scene of an accident, doubly so when it was someone as decorated as Jeffrey’s closest friend and best officer by a country mile, Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Jeffrey had been on a quick conference call with the assholes up in City Hall about something that, now, seemed completely irrelevant when he’d gotten word, and had broken off the call with a curt, “There’s a family emergency; I have to go.”

He’d taken a police cruiser, specifically so he could flip on his lights and peel past the rows of automated cars puttering along at exactly the speed limit, but when he’d seen how much the roads had deteriorated in the last eight hours, he found himself driving five miles _under_ the speed limit, just to ensure that he didn’t fishtail into oncoming traffic. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find out if that had been the determining factor in Hank’s accident.

When he arrived, a human clerk saw him thundering forward, and having seen him arrive in hospitals before—fucking Red Ice cocksucking pricks ambushing _his_ men—merely pointed him down the correct corridor with little more than a nod in his direction. Humans were an increasingly rare find in hospitals, especially in the entry-level areas; he’d have to go back and thank her later, when all of this died down, because he knew for damn sure that no fucking _android_ would’ve ever understood the situation that quickly.

Currently, he sat in a hard plastic chair against the wall in the hospital corridor, left arm comfortingly wrapped around the shoulders of Hank’s estranged wife, Kate. She was tiny compared to them, 5’4” and of slight build; she sat in her own chair, hunched forward so tensely that it was a wonder she wasn’t breaking her own damn ribs from the pressure. In front of them both, shoes thudding and squelching against the linoleum tile as he paced back and forth frantically, was Hank, one hand against his hip, and the other buried into his short gray hair. A couple of years back, that hair was almost to his shoulders and still sitting at an intersection between dirty blond and a honeyed brown.

He’d just turned fifty a little over a month ago. This shouldn’t be happening.

Jeffrey ran his hand soothingly over Kate’s shoulders, leaning forward a little to try and catch her hard, aimless gaze. “You thirsty? I can get you a drink, if you want.”

Kate’s jaw clenched even further under her unkempt tresses of brown hair, fingers gripping the wadded cloth of her hand-knitted sweater even harder. He was pretty sure that she’d been asleep when she’d gotten the call; he knew EMTs worked some crazy shifts. She blinked, as if she’d forgotten where she was. “No,” she whispered, her alto flat.

Jeffrey wasn’t exactly an expressive man—so long as that expression wasn’t anger—so showing comfort wasn’t really his forte. Still, he softened his voice and nodded. “Alright. Let me know if you do, okay?”

Kate didn’t answer.

Jeffrey looked over the disheveled poof of wavy brown hair towards Hank, who hadn’t stopped moving since Jeffrey had gotten here. The two of them had known each other for almost twenty-five years, at this point. When they’d first met in the academy, they hadn’t really liked one another. They liked each other even less when they were partnered up, a few years later. Whereas Jeffrey was very by-the-book, calculating and articulate, Hank worked almost entirely on gut instinct, using intuitive leaps in logic that would’ve made him look like a goddamn whack-job, if they weren’t correct almost every damn time.

It took time for Jeffrey to realize that Hank’s ability to empathize with people from all walks of life, both victim and perpetrator, was one of the things that made him so goddamn good at his job. He could read situations in a way that bordered on clairvoyance, putting himself in the shoes of almost anybody, and just somehow _understanding_ what was going through their head at the time of the crime. It was like watching a fucking soothsayer at work.

The biggest downside to that, Jeffrey learned, was that Hank had a nagging tendency to overwhelm himself. The man was a fucking _machine_—he never stopped, no matter what was going on around him, or what he was personally going through. When Hank got an idea in his head, he did what every self-respecting pitbull did with a brand new pillow—he bit down and shook the shit out of it.

Jeffrey, at this moment, was a little more than worried that Hank had gotten in his head that all of this was his fault. That was absolutely _not_ a pillow that needed to be torn open. “Hank, do you need anything? Food, water?”

Hank didn’t even acknowledge him, still continuing to wear a hole in the floor, bandaged hand firmly nested in a tuft of blood-crusted hair.

According to the preliminary reports Fowler was reading on the way to the police cruiser, a truck had skidded on a sheet of ice, T-boned Hank’s automated 2032 Chevy, and caused the car to roll over into an embankment. At first, he’d been relieved to read that the primary impact site had been the rear driver side, as it meant that Hank hadn’t been directly hit.

Then he’d read the next line, and stifled a scream with the willful closing of his throat, and a broad hand pressed against his mouth.

“Hank,” Jeffrey repeated, straightening a little in his seat. He contemplated standing directly in front of him just to get him to stop fucking moving for five seconds—

A set of double doors nearby hissed open. “Mr. and Mrs. Anderson?”

Jeffrey and Kate immediately sprang to their feet while Hank spun around on the ball of his foot; all three eyes glared sharply at the new figure.

An android stood in the threshold, its blue scrubs a giant neon sign against the flat white that surrounded it. Its uniform bore some marks of surgery, little flecks of drying blood along its clothed forearm, with a clear demarcation line between where the gloves had been peeled back and thrown away in a sterile container. Something in Fowler’s mind latched onto that instantly, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “What is this? Where’s the surgeon?”

The android tilted its head to look at him, expression pleasantly blank, unperturbed by everything around it. “I apologize, Mr. Fowler, but I’m only authorized to speak to the immediate family of—“

“I _am_ immediate family,” Fowler cut in sharply, tone dire, “so don’t expect me to leave.”

The android blinked once, seemingly receiving its new parameters. “Of course, Mr. Fowler. If you’d like to sit down—“

“Where’s my son?” Hank asked, stepping forward once, and then halting abruptly, as if an outside force were stopping him. “What happened to Cole? How is he?”

The android’s expression drooped in an approximation of sadness, and that’s when Jeffrey knew the answer. The room suddenly felt too cold. “I’m sorry; I’m afraid that Cole didn’t make it. His injuries were too—“

Its pre-programmed speech was cut off by a horrified scream, Kate clamping her hands over her mouth and legs giving out beneath her. Instinct taking over, Fowler caught her as she slumped forward, arms wound around her wiry frame while she thrashed inconsolably in his grip. He managed to leverage them both back onto the seats, Kate’s body seizing from the force of her sobs, wailing in tongues. He held her tightly against him, as much to prevent her from harming herself or anyone in else in her grief as much to ground her. He wished he wasn’t so old-hat at this shit.

He glanced up from the tangled mass of curls tucked into his chest to Hank, and felt his breath catch in his throat. Hank stood frozen in place for nearly ten seconds, long features slack with shock, and blue eyes alight with horror; the only indication that he wasn’t completely catatonic was the tremble beginning to run through his hands. After what felt like forever, Hank’s face twitched, snapping out of his trance, and he stormed past them all, head tucked down and movements stiff.

Jeffrey watched Hank pass him by, reaching out a hand to grasp the man’s arm, “Hank, wait—“

Hank sidled away from the attempt at comfort; Jeffrey couldn’t tell if Hank had intentionally shoulder-checked the android along the way or not, but Jeffrey couldn’t give a shit about it, either way. He moved to get up, to follow Hank down the hallway before he did something stupid, but Kate’s weight stilled him before he could jostle her further. Stricken, he glanced between the retreating back of his best friend, the woman clinging to him, and back, before settling back into the chair fully; his chest hurt.

The android righted itself, straightening its glorified smock, and stepped forward, bowing its head in its fake fucking remorse. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Kate only sobbed harder.

Fowler snarled up at it. “Get the fuck out of our faces.”

Obediently, the android nodded, and complied.

* * *

It had taken nearly twenty-five minutes before Fowler had a chance to start looking for Hank in earnest. He couldn’t leave Kate by herself in this state, and he wouldn’t trust anyone but one of his people to take care of her properly.

That person turned out to be Gavin.

To Reed’s credit, he took the news with a level of tastefulness he didn’t often show. While Hank and Gavin had never really been the world’s closest friends, owing mostly to the both of them being stubborn assholes about it, they did have a mutual, if sometimes begrudging, respect of one another. They got along well enough, Reed’s arrogant showboating bullshit aside, and to everyone’s surprise—including Gavin’s—Cole took to him like a fish to water. Not even Gavin could keep his asshole facade up for long against the power of the boy’s insufferable levels of joy and wonder in the world.

The look that crossed Gavin’s face when he was informed was something Jeffrey wasn’t likely to forget. Not for the first time in that agonizing twenty-five minute wait, he reminded himself that he couldn’t afford to break down yet.

When he’d given Gavin and Chris the order to stay there and watch over Kate, Jeffrey had expected Chris to be the one to do the consoling, while Gavin hovered like a protective hound. Instead, he found himself watching one of his toughest and most asshole-ish detectives ease himself onto the seat opposite of her, and gently pry her away from Fowler’s chest and towards his own, his movements showing a level of care that Jeffrey had never seen from the man before.

When she’d begun to protest, a low, choked moan deep in her throat, he’d quietly shushed her, tucking her head beneath his chin and closing his eyes. “It’s alright, Katey, it’s alright, I’m right here.”

If Fowler recalled correctly, Kate hated that nickname; so much so, that the last time Gavin called her that, she threatened to castrate him with a cheese-grater. Gavin gifted her a 5-piece grater set for her birthday, later that year. He’d never seen her laugh so hard.

Not now, he’d told himself again. Not now.

Gavin soothingly rubbed his hand over the crest of her shoulder, murmuring quiet nothings to her as she sagged, boneless, against him. He’d opened his eyes to non-verbally address his Captain, nodding faintly to let him know that Gavin had this, and satisfied that Kate was in good hands, for the time being—as good as she was liable to get, in any case—Fowler had nodded back. He’d risen to his feet, hips creaking in protest like the old fucking man of fifty-four that he was, and gently patted Reed on the shoulder in silent thanks, before going off to find Hank.

He’d stalked through the corridors of the hospital, the bleating of phones, sharp chirps of hospital monitors, and the rhythmic plastic hum of gurneys and carts rolling over the flat while tile giving the space an air of constructed chaos that put Central to shame. Fowler, a burly man of 6’, found he didn’t have to really duck around many people, as they saw him coming and made a point of getting the hell out of his way as soon as possible. Sometimes he liked that, other times it rankled at him; at that moment, it was useful, so he hadn’t thought any further on it.

He’d stopped at the receptionist desk, rapping a knuckle against the scratched Formica surface. “Excuse me? Have you seen a man come through here recently—about my height, Caucasian, gray hair, wearing a black coat?”

The receptionist—her badge said ‘Cindy’—had looked up at him with a smile. The smile was tired, he could tell; plastered on with all the strength an overworked mother of three could muster. It had still been a fair sight better than the plastic ones that androids gave. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I can’t—“

He’d pulled out his badge. “I’m a cop, and he’s a cop too. Did you see him?”

She had the audacity to pitch forward in her seat and verify the fucking badge number first. Begrudgingly, he had to give her props for doing her job, especially in sitting across a big, burly 6’ black man that was clearly impatient. The world needed more people like her, he’d thought to himself. “I see. Was his last name Anderson?”

Fowler’s already straight posture straightened further. “Yeah. Did you see where he went?”

“He called for a cab home about fifteen, twenty minutes ago. I think he left maybe ten minutes…”

He was already halfway through the foyer before she finished her sentence. “Thank you, ma’am!”

Jeffrey had rushed into the freezing cold weather, tucking his head as far into the lapels of his coat as he was able to, while rushing to the cruiser. He’d climbed into the cab, thinking briefly about putting an APB out on the taxi, just to slow it down enough for Jeffrey to get to him, but quickly decided against it. Hank’s entire world just fell apart less than a half hour ago; he wasn’t liable to be thinking clearly. From his time in SWAT, he knew all to well what happened when an emotionally distraught man who had lost everything he ever loved was approached by a horde of cops.

Inwardly, Jeffrey had hated how much he was thinking about this like Hank was just some other poor bastard that had his life ruined with a single sentence, but he couldn’t afford to let his worry get the better of him. Sentimentality wasn’t going to get him to Hank’s place faster.

He’d flipped on his lights and floored it, anyway.

Now here Jeffrey was, rolling his massive Detroit PD cruiser into the driveway of the Anderson household—police lights off, at this point, as to not agitate Hank further—and wondering just what the fuck he was going to be walking into. Hank was resilient as hell, but he’d always been the more emotional one, between the two of them. He invested himself fully into everything he did, which meant that, if those things completely collapsed, it was sometimes a struggle for him to not get dragged down with the debris.

If Jeffrey was being honest with himself, as he slipped out of the driver’s side seat and fiddled with his keys to find the one for Hank’s door, he didn’t know for certain how he could help Hank dig his way out of the rubble, this time.

He heard Sumo’s panicked barking from the other side of the door well before he got there, prompting him to pick up the pace across the slippery, ice-covered walkway leading to the house. Steam puffed from his lips as he stopped at the door, barely illuminated a pale blue by the nearby dock lights, and flicked the lock open in a single, jerky movement.

He swung the door open, the volume of Sumo’s barks almost deafening, and was moving before his brain fully registered what his eyes laid upon:

Hank Anderson, standing dead center in the middle of his kitchen, holding a trembling gun to his temple.

Fowler tackled Hank to the ground before his finger could squeeze the trigger—_‘don’t do it, don’t do it, Hank, fuck, don’t’_—using his weight advantage to keep his friend pinned long enough that he could grab Hank’s gun hand and slam it down until his grip loosened. Once, twice, three times, four—the bandages around the hand smeared red as the stitches beneath burst open, the sound of the gun’s barrel clacking against the tile providing accompaniment to Sumo’s nails against the hardwood floors, as he shuffled anxiously from one side of the living room to another.

Aside from the heavy breathing of exertion, Hank hadn’t made a sound.

Hank’s grip around the gun finally failed, and it slipped onto the tile with a clatter, shortly before Fowler pushed it away, the weapon skidding into the darkened adjacent room. Jeffrey continued to hold Hank down, his dark eyes blazing with a sudden, intense fury. “What the fuck are you thinking, Hank?”

Fowler wasn’t really certain what response he was expecting, given his own emotions were starting to bubble up in unpleasant ways, but he certainly had _not_ been expecting an elbow to his face.

Stunned, he jerked back instinctively, giving Hank room to tear his right hand free from Fowler’s slack grip and jam his bloodied hand directly against his throat, shoving back with all his might. Jeffrey, still dazed that his best friend was attacking him, moved with the motion, flopping back into the nearby table, the back of his head cracking against the plain wooden leg.

Vision swimming, he blinked blearily, looking up just in time to see Hank lunge towards him. It was then that Jeffrey Fowler, friend of Hank Anderson stepped aside, and Captain Jeffrey Fowler of the Detroit Police Department took the reigns, because one glance at the crazed gleam in Hank’s eyes was all he needed to know about what he, in fact, walked into.

_‘__Fuck,’ _was all he rationally thought, before he let survival instinct and SWAT training take over.

Fowler kicked, catching Hank in the side and sending him off course. He used his momentum to shift onto his hands and knees, and lunged forward himself. He grappled Hank’s elbows, trying to force his arms behind his back, leveraging his weight against Hank’s awkward positioning to try and get him to the ground. Hank, even insane with grief, still knew enough to use that against him, purposely pitching himself forward, forcing Jeffrey to over-correct and lose his balance.

He was rolled over Hank’s back and shoulder, slamming back-first into the concrete wall, Hank moving with the motion to turn and assault Fowler again. Where he was, at this odd angle compared to Hank, there wasn’t a quick and easy way to defend against the hands that scrabbled against his throat, warm, tacky blood smearing under his jowls as Hank squeezed.

For half a second, Fowler just stared at the man wearing his friend’s face, at the vacant emptiness in his eyes, and felt a seething rush of empathy well up inside of him. Hank would feel terrible for this, later.

Fowler kicked off the back wall, sliding himself forward with enough momentum that he reared up and connected a knee to Hank’s bandaged temple with as much force as he could muster. For the first time, Hank made a noise—an anguished cry of surprise—as he fell back against the cabinets heavily. He cradled the wound feebly with one hand while his other fumbled against the cheap pineboard.

Fowler sucked in precious air, hand massaging his throat while he knelt on one knee—and just barely managed to duck his head beneath his arm as a drawer full of cutlery came flying at him. He stifled a cry of his own when he felt a few of the kitchen knives make contact with his shoulder and bicep. Luckily enough for him, the winter layers absorbed most of the blow, but—

Fowler heard the scrape before he saw the glint, and twisted his arm to alter the trajectory of the knife before it ended somewhere he really didn’t want it to go—like his skull. He tugged Hank’s arm forcefully to the right, forcing Hank to stumble to his knees. Not breaking the momentum, he twisted the arm behind Hank’s back, putting his full 198 pounds of weight right in between Hank’s shoulder blades. Hank, overextended and without a means to correct his balance, slammed face first into the ground.

Despite everything, Fowler tried his hardest not to land directly on the blade as he all but laid on top of Hank’s upper body, gripping his other arm and pinning both at the small of his back with his shin.

Reality slowly encroached on Fowler’s senses again, heaving with exertion while adrenaline still coursed through his quaking limbs and sweat dotted his forehead. He wrestled the knife from Hank’s grip, tossing it to the other side of the room casually, as if it were just a piece of dirty clothing, and not the weapon used in an attempted murder of a police officer. It took him a second to remember how to speak. “Are you fuckin’ _done yet_?”

Jeffrey really didn’t want to think about how many procedural rules he’d tossed out the fucking window in the last sixty seconds as Hank thrashed beneath him, flailing and screaming to be let go in impotent rage. Jesus, if he’d heard that anyone on his team had quite literally charged head-first into a suicidal man armed with a deadly weapon without so much as a how-do-you-do, he would’ve buried his foot so far up their ass, they’d be coughing up shoe-leather for a month. That was the dumbest, most reckless shit he could’ve ever—

Hank stilled underneath him very suddenly, before he slumped to the ground, just as boneless as Kate had been in the hospital, turning his face into the plastic tiling. “Let me go,” he croaked, voice becoming thick. “Please, let me go, _please_…”

Jeffrey didn’t move at first, waiting a second to make sure that Hank wasn’t about to yank a fucking switchblade from somewhere. He could explain away the few bruises, but a stab wound was a little harder.

A tiny, muffled sob forced its way out of Hank’s throat, then, and Jeffrey looked down with just enough time to spare to watch his friend’s spirit break in real time.

Jeffrey scrambled off of Hank, rocking back onto his knees as Hank immediately wound his arms tightly around the back of his head, shielding his face from view. It didn’t do much to mask the ragged breathing and the muted, bone-rattling cries that rose from him. Jeffrey felt paralyzed; he’d seen Hank cry once or twice before, sure, but _this_…

Without thought, Jeffrey shuffled forward next to Hank’s head. Then, with the same care he saw Gavin use with Kate, he slipped an arm underneath Hank’s chest and gently scooped him into his lap. He wound the other arm around Hank, who still protectively—shamefully—covered his head, and leaned forward, effectively cocooning the man as he wept for what he lost.

Hank was too far gone in his own grief to ever know that Jeffrey was crying right along with him.


	2. October 11th, 2039

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years later; resolution.

Everyone in the precinct had October 11th marked on their calendars.

For most of the newer folk, especially the androids that had only known freedom in the last year or so, it was just some weird day where they knew they’d be short-handed, and surrounded by pissy, irritable people. For the veteran folks, they _were_ the pissy, irritable people—assuming they even showed up, that day. Some called out specifically because they didn’t want to put up with the inordinate amount of bullshit that day, others called out for more…understandable reasons.

Jeffrey fucking _wished_ that he had that kind of luxury. He didn’t, so, he ended up being the most pissy and miserable of the lot, and everyone knew to just leave him the fuck alone until the clock ticked over to October 12th. A small part of him felt guilty for it, that he was taking out his pain and frustration on people who didn’t deserve it, but one of the nice things about being pissed off the entire day was that he didn’t feel the effects of his own assholery until the anger faded later.

Hm. Maybe that wasn’t so nice of an effect. He didn’t have time to ruminate over this shit.

He’d gotten in extra early for his shift, while the few stragglers left from the night crew were still milling about, and well before anyone from the morning shift came in. He needed to have time to himself to get his internal shit in order before he had to go about pretending that he gave a single shit about anything going on around him today. He’d checked his emails, managing to flip off the screen only once before he’d caught himself up on the bureaucratic horseshit that he was going to be wading through. Then, he set about finalizing schedule rotations for the remainder of the month, while glancing at everyone’s attendance record to account for anything that might have fallen off, or was recently requested.

He looked at today’s roster and hesitated for a moment, before quickly marking Hank absent in the system.

When sunlight began creeping through the window in his peripheral vision, Jeffrey had blearily noted the time on his monitor’s taskbar—7:57 AM—and thought about getting the first of his daily five-cup recommended dosage of coffee. He decided against it five seconds later, when he realized he would probably run into people that wanted to actually talk to him while getting it.

_‘__You’re a fucking police captain, you asshole,’_ he’d chided himself almost immediately. _‘Your job _is_ people.’_

He’d hunkered further into his chair at his own internal monologue. Didn’t mean he had to fucking like it.

His morning debriefings came and went; they came in, they sat down, they got their marching orders, and they left. Now, with his requisite daily interpersonal interaction out of the way, Jeffrey settled in to doing his damndest to keep his head down and just—

_Knock, knock._

Jeffrey glanced at the digital clock on his monitor: 8:17 AM. Jesus Christ, it had only been two minutes.

He kept his attention on the screen, but didn’t bother trying to hide the scowl that twisted his dark features. He raised a hand just enough to be seen over the monitor and waved them in curtly. “Come in.”

He didn’t divert his eyes when he heard the door swing open and a couple of pairs of footsteps shuffle their way in. “Good morning, Captain Fowler.”

Connor. Of course it was fucking Connor; the _one_ person he didn’t speak to, yet. He still didn’t look up. “I know you didn’t come here to say hello.”

“You’re right, I didn’t.” Fowler heard something being put onto his desk, and while he made a point to squint and keep reading the same words for the fourth time, when the aroma hit, he swore his eyes moved on auto-pilot.

Fowler glanced at the little styrofoam cup nestled between his monitor and a stack of paper, piping hot and smelling just as gloriously awful as it always did. He furrowed his brows. “Now, I _know_ you didn’t come here to bring me cof—“

His eyes darted up to his weird android benefactor, words dying in his throat.

Hank, standing just behind Connor with a reserved expression on his face, stared back. “What?”

Connor spared a half-second to look at Hank, before returning his gaze to Fowler. “The coffee was Lieutenant Anderson’s idea. We were informed that you arrived much earlier than your scheduled shift, and he believed that you needed the pick me up.”

Jeffrey blinked, trying—and failing—to mask his shock. “Hank. I…didn’t expect you to be here, today.”

“Yeah, I know. You marked me as absent, and it meant I couldn’t punch, so…” He shrugged a shoulder. “Here I am. Do you need me to write in?”

Jeffrey blinked again, the world feeling strangely far away as he answered, “No, I can change it on my end.”

Hank’s blue eyes dropped down and away, and his lip twitched in thought. “Hey, Connor? Can you give me and Fowler a minute to talk alone?”

If Connor had any idea what Hank wanted to say, he didn’t divulge it, simply nodding and taking a step back from the desk. “Of course, Lieutenant. I’ll be at my desk, if you need anything.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Hank replied, tone distant, as Connor professionally excused himself from whatever the fuck was about to go down, the door clicking closed behind him.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Fowler recovered from his surprise as best as he was able in the prevailing silence, sighing and clasping his hands together with a raised brow. “Alright. You have my undivided attention. What can I do for you?”

Hank didn’t reply immediately, his body an unusually tense line in front of him as he visibly took in a deep, calming breath.

Warning bells started going off in his head, and despite knowing of Hank’s progress in recent months—despite knowing that he could visit his friend at any time—he felt the tingle of dread exploding like fireworks in the base of his skull. Jeffrey leaned forward onto his forearms. “Hank, if you’re thinking about retiring—“

“No, fuck that,” Hank shot back instinctively, though his blue eyes wandered away from Jeffrey, towards the corner of the room.

Fowler hunched his shoulders in a questioning shrug. “So, what _are_ we talking about, then?”

Hank closed his eyes with a closed-mouthed sigh, then reopened them. His gaze was still averted. “Look, Fowler, I…I know that I haven’t really been the best…well, _anything_, for a long while now, and I know how much of my bullshit you’ve put up with—“

“Including now,” Jeffrey added conversationally.

Hank glared at him, and Jeffrey could practically _see_ the word ‘asshole’ climbing up his throat. He did, however, get Jeffrey’s point, shoulders slumping. “I’m just trying to say I’m sorry, okay?”

Jeffrey knotted his brows. The fuck was Hank on about? “For what?”

Hank did a double-take, gaping at him like he’d grown another head. “What do you mean, _‘For what’_?”

Fowler propped up his left elbow, kneading the flesh underneath his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Hank. We have known each other _way_ too long for me to cherry pick exactly which moment you’re trying to apologize for. So, you’re gonna have to help me out.”

“It’s pretty fucking obvious, isn’t it? Considering what day it is.”

Oh. _That’s_ what this was about.

Jeffrey rested his temple against the pad of his thumb, staring up at Hank past the curve of his brows. “Hank, what are you apologizing for? Having a really, _really_ shitty day and actually being affected by it? We already talked about this, tail end of last year. Remember? I told you what needed to happen, and you’ve been doing that—hell, _more_ than that. If you need to hear that you’re doing a good job, then…” He gestured with his free hand. “You’re doing a good job, Hank.”

Hank grimaced; only Hank would argue a compliment. “You never told me why, though. Remember that?”

Honestly, Fowler didn’t, so when he gave a look to elaborate, Hank leaned forward, hands planted flat against the sleek black desk. His baritone was a stage whisper, albeit a pained one. “Jeffrey, I tried to fucking _kill_ you. I—I pulled a _knife_ on you, and—“ He gritted his teeth, glancing away for a split second, then added more resolutely, “Why didn’t you _do_ anything about it? Throw me in jail or—or _anything_?”

Jeffrey balked; he wasn’t sure what was rising in his chest, but he quashed it anyway, just in case it decided to stir some shit later. “Why do you _think_ I didn’t?”

At that, Hank spent a good two or three seconds spluttering, tripping over his own vocal chords at the question being thrown back at him, before he finally hiked up his shoulders and exclaimed, “I don’t fuckin’ know, that’s why I’m asking you!”

Fowler dipped his head into his awaiting palm, dragging the worn callouses along his face while he plucked the still-steaming cup of coffee from the table. Now he understood why Hank suggested it, the sly bastard. Hank waited, albeit impatiently, while Fowler took one sip, then another, before putting the styrofoam cup down and licking the hint of residue from his lips. He was going to need all the caffeine he could get for this shit. “Do you really wanna know why, Hank?” he asked, a fake lightness to his tone.

Hank’s brows dipped, and he blinked. “Well, yeah.”

Fowler nodded, shifting in his surprisingly comfortable chair. “Well, part of the reason is that you’re my friend.”

Hank sagged back disappointedly, looking away with a scowl.

“_But_,” Fowler emphasized, leaning onto his forearms again to try and get Hank’s attention from whatever hole he was starting to crawl down, “the primary reason is the intent. I know you weren’t actually trying to harm me—that you were distraught and lashing out at the first thing that came near you. I can’t say that I or anyone else wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing in your shoes.”

Hank still kept his gaze pointedly averted, anger and guilt fighting for dominance. Jeffrey deliberately softened his own. “Hank, for fuck’s sake, you lost your _son_. You had the worst day any parent could ever possibly have. Hell, even if it _hadn’t_ been you I walked in on that night—if it’d just been some call I was on, I wouldn’t have pressed charges against them, either, because what I saw wasn’t malicious. What _I_ saw was a good man that got pushed too far.”

Hank’s eyes flashed his way for a split second, before resuming their vigil of the room’s corner. He swallowed, jaw rolling beneath his beard. “…Not an excuse.”

Jeffrey shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But, I’ve already forgiven you for it—as far as I’m concerned, there isn’t anything to forgive.” He rapped his knuckles against the desk twice, glancing down at the blue glow bouncing off the black metal, and then back up. “Now, I know I can’t tell you to stop beating yourself up over this—knowing you, you’d just ignore me, and do it, anyway—but I’m not going to help you do it, either. You deserve better than that.”

Fowler could tell that Hank wanted to argue that—vehemently—so he pitched himself forward just a hair further and ordered, “Hank. Look at me.”

Hank finished exhaling, then straightened his posture, and complied with as much cobbled together defiance as he could possibly muster. Fowler held his gaze for two seconds before slowly enunciating, “We’re okay. Okay? I promise you, we’re okay.”

Something shifted in Hank’s eyes, and while the guilt and reticence still lingered, it wasn’t as prominent. He nodded a little. “Okay.”

“Good.” Fowler leaned back into his chair, eager to take some pressure off of his lower lumbar, and eyed his Lieutenant warily. “Are you sure you’re good to work today? I’ve already got you marked, if you need to go home—“

Hank shook his head, waving his hand as he stepped back to his full height. “Nah, I’m good, I can make it.” He glanced Fowler’s way. “How about you? Been told this isn’t your favorite day, either.”

Fowler didn’t like how put on the spot he felt; he also didn’t like how quickly Hank was able to turn this shit around on him. Bastard always was good at that. He motioned to the still-steaming cup of coffee. “I’ve got coffee. I’ll manage.” He planted his elbows against the armrests, and threaded his fingers over his midsection. “Now, Lieutenant, is there anything else I can do for you today?”

Hank paused for a moment, expression contemplative. “Yeah. One thing.” He reached into the inner breast pocket of his winter coat, tugging out a folded white paper.

Jeffrey’s heart skipped a beat. “Hank, I thought you said—“

“It’s not a resignation,” Hank explained in irritation as he fished the paper out, holding it out over the desk between them. “It’s a, um…belated birthday present.”

Fowler looked at him, the paper, and back. “Hank, my birthday’s in August.”

Hank glared at him. “Will you just take the fucking paper, please?”

Frowning, he plucked the folded rectangle of paper from Hank’s fingers, immediately noting its thicker, rougher texture than an average piece of copy paper. With furrowed brows, he slipped his thumb between the first fold and hastily unwrapped it. In a few short seconds, the little rectangle blossomed into a nine-by-twelve piece of faded construction paper, adorned with a poorly-drawn drawing of a person, little more than a stick figure scrawled over with blue colored pencil, standing in front of a big red block.

He gaped at it, blinking. What the fuck? His eyes flicked over the edge of the paper in confusion at Hank, whose expression had gone reserved again. “I don’t—“

He looked back down, and only then caught the artist’s name at the bottom, written in the big, uncoordinated loops only a child could make.

_\- COLE ANDERSON_

Jeffrey’s throat closed up.

“Cole’s class held a little birthday party for one of his teachers, that day,” Hank explained, attention focused intently on the paper in Jeffrey’s fingers. His voice was steadier than Jeffrey would’ve imagined it to be, but that was a good thing. That was _definitely_ a good thing. “I guess it upset him that he’d never really thought about other people’s birthdays before then, so he spent his lunch-break drawing ‘presents’ for damn near everybody he knew; me, Kate, you, Sumo—hell, he even made Gavin one.”

Stunned into silence, Jeffrey gaped up at Hank. He let his gaze drop, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shrugging idly. “Y’know, he…he knew he wasn’t allowed in your office, so he made me promise that I would give that to you as soon as I possibly could.” He bit the inside of his cheek for a second, before he mustered up the ability to speak again. “Took four years, but…you know. Thought I finally could, and I said I would, so…” He met Jeffrey’s gaze, shrugging again with the slightest hint of a resigned smile.

Just like four years ago, he was moving without thought again; this time, he let the paper flutter onto his keyboard, quickly jamming on the button to opaque the walls while he got to his feet. Hank, himself, seemed confused as fuck by the sudden change in demeanor—maybe even a little afraid, judging by the way he started to shrink back a little when Jeffrey rounded the desk.

He seemed even more confused when Jeffrey shot a hand out, clamping it down around the back of Hank’s neck and dragging him into a crushing hug, flinching against the contact Jeffrey made against him.

Jeffrey hadn’t breathed in almost a full minute; he was almost sure he forgot how, until he felt Hank’s arms wind tightly around his torso, bearded chin drooping lightly against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Jeffrey,” Hank murmured, words nearly lost in the rumble of his baritone. “I know how much he meant to you.”

Jeffrey’s lungs finally stuttered into motion again, breathing shakily as he stared sightlessly through the wall behind them, old hurts rising to the surface with a painful, debilitating efficiency.

Hank hugged Jeffrey tighter, in response.

The only coherent thought that went through Jeffrey Fowler’s for the next thirty seconds was: it was good to have his friend back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't do it, guys. I just couldn't end the story the way I had in the first chapter. It was intended to be part of a larger, broader story that was--eventually--going to have a happy-ish ending to it. So the despondency of the scene itself was going to be offset by the payoff of the resolution. As a one-shot, there was no resolution, and it depressed me to reread it, so...here we are. Resolution.
> 
> Hank and Fowler are the original BroTP, and you can't convince me, otherwise.


End file.
